


Sometimes when we touch

by MidLifeLez



Category: Holby City
Genre: F/F, Fluff, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 08:24:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12384492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidLifeLez/pseuds/MidLifeLez
Summary: I kept thinking about little moments when Bernie and Serena touch, and this happened. Just a collection of vignettes.





	Sometimes when we touch

On the first morning that they woke up together, Serena had glanced towards Bernie half-expecting a look of panic on her face, had half prepared for the sight of Bernie turned in on herself, hatching an escape plan through a fug of self-loathing. Instead she had found Bernie absent-mindedly drawing circles with her index finger on Serena’s hip. Serena has woken to Bernie’s touch so many times now that she couldn’t tell you about the particulars of this or that time, only how much she delights in the dance of Bernie’s hands on her body. Sometimes she’s facing away from Bernie when she wakes and feels Bernie tracing patterns up and down the curve of her back, her touch as light as if Serena were made of glass. Other times her face is turned towards Bernie and she can peek through narrowed eyes to watch her, to watch Bernie who’s lost in thought, who has no plans, no directions for her hands to follow, Bernie who just loves the feeling of Serena’s pale skin beneath her fingertips. On the nights when sleep won’t come it’s not the kisses in her hair or the warmth of their embrace but the feeling of Bernie’s fingernails, just barely there, tracking up and down her side, tripping lightly over each rib, that coaxes her towards slumber.

 

**When it’s cold Bernie’s neck aches and she hates needing someone else to fix it but all the shoulder rolls in the world won’t ease the sharp heat that gathers between the vertebrae and occasionally sends unwelcome flares to her elbows. Or at least she did. Now when she swings her arms in the scrub room she returns Serena’s concerned look with a slow blink that says _I know_ ; when she sits at her desk and drops her head first to one shoulder and then the other, she catches Serena’s eye with a look that says _yes please_. There are times when they close the front door behind them in the evening and Bernie will carefully shrug her shoulders a couple of times and grin and say ‘I think it’s alright now’, but most times she trudges to the sofa and lays down gingerly on her front, Serena following close behind. Serena will kneel and move Bernie’s fringe out of her eyes and ask ‘Bad?’ and Bernie will close her eyes to stop the tears; she doesn’t know if she’s crying because her back hurts or because she loves Serena so much but either way the pressure of Serena’s fingertips across her shoulders makes her feel better. The way Serena brushes her fringe aside makes her feel better. **

No matter which of them is driving, Bernie reaches across and puts her hand on Serena’s thigh. On the occasions that Edward had done similar, it had felt completely different – Serena had felt claimed, manhandled, a great fleshy clamp holding her in place. Bernie’s hand feels warm and gentle and it doesn’t say anything except _I love you_ , and Serena likes to drive with Bernie’s right hand on her leg, Bernie’s fingers curved around the inside of her thigh. At the weekend, when they’re in jeans, Bernie’s index and middle fingers will absent-mindedly seek out and play with the hem running down the inside of Serena’s leg. If Bernie’s at the wheel then her left hand will settle close to Serena’s knee, and each time she has to move her hand away to change gear, she’ll rub her thumb up and down quickly before she does. Serena has studied Bernie’s face when she does it and has decided it’s not a conscious thing, just Bernie’s body bidding a fond little farewell each time. When Bernie’s hand comes back, as it always does, Serena cups her own hands over it and squeezes lightly.

 

**Serena knows from Bernie’s stance that it’s Charlotte on the phone. Knows from the way that Bernie’s free hand frets at her bottom lip, or rolls the hem of her top, or isn’t, basically, waving about all over the shop in that expressive way that Bernie usually has. Usually but not when Charlotte’s on the phone and Bernie is desperate to say the thing that melts the tension between them. Bernie isn’t aware of all this but is aware of the feeling of Serena’s palm on her back. It’s still, not rubbing this way and that but completely still, an anchor. Serena doesn’t try and catch her eye, doesn’t try to jump into the conversation, and when it’s over she lets Bernie turn in and bury her face into her shoulder without saying a word. Still Serena’s hands don’t move, just hold steadfastly to Bernie’s back as she tries to get her breathing back to normal, tries not to cry all over Serena’s top even though she has done before, even though she will do again. They don’t move as Bernie goes quiet, and Bernie gives herself a moment to appreciate Serena’s touch, a gift that Serena gave her almost as soon as she met her.**

 

Really Serena had only put the chair in the bathroom because, having persuaded herself that it wasn’t merely an expensive impulse buy, she had had to find a home for it. The bathroom was the last room in the house that she’d redecorated after the divorce, and she wanted it to be luxurious and feminine. Bernie had frowned the first time she saw it, but when she came over one Sunday afternoon in the early days of their courtship to find Serena in the bath, she sat straight down and put her elbows on the side of the bath, leaning down to talk. Serena had pushed two sets of soaked, walnutty toes up through the bubbles and Bernie had reached over and started massaging them without thinking. ‘Sorry, you don’t mind, do you?’ she’d asked, when she realised. ‘You stop and I might have to kill you,’ Serena had said in a hoarse whisper, without opening her eyes. She had been warm and comfortable in the bath but this? Who taught Bernie just where and when to add pressure? Who taught her where to move swiftly and where to press as if she hoped to leave her fingerprints on Serena’s skin? Who knew soft, low groans and barks of laughter could converse so beautifully? Bernie has never stopped, and Serena has never minded.

 

**Bernie has a habit of falling asleep in front of the television. ‘It’s not like I mean to!’ she’ll protest, as yet again Serena is forced to tell her what happened after so-and-so saw what’s’isname at the allotments. Secretly Bernie wants to blame Serena, blame Serena and _her_ habit of letting Bernie lift her feet up onto the sofa and prop herself up against Serena’s side. Because really, that’s the problem: that’s how it happens that Serena ends up with an arm across Bernie’s front, fingers toying with Bernie’s sleeve. Actually this is the intimacy - not the moments when Bernie looks up at Serena from between her thighs, not the moments when Serena’s hand is between their bodies and Bernie clutches at the sheets, struggling to breathe - _this_ is the intimacy that she knows is the difference between her old life and new, the two of them sharing touches that anyone might see. Bernie loves the feel of being wrapped up in Serena’s embrace, loves to feel the rise and fall of her chest under the weight of Serena’s arm; can’t stay awake once her mind falls into step with it. **


End file.
